The Other Home
by SnarlingDemons
Summary: A/N: Starts in Soulforge - They had thought Rosamum was passed her trances so they never expected for her to suddenly drift away. They expected her to return with a guest even less.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Rosamum sat stiffly upon her rocking chair, still and silent as the frigid fall air outside of the Majere's rickety cottage. The Widow Judith had only just gone out to purchase the week's groceries at the market but she was already losing touch with the world around her. Gray streaked strands of hair fell limply in to her vision and her eyes shifted minutely to stare at them.

Once, a very long time ago, Rosamum had the richest curls of copper brown hair in all of Palanthas. Soft not only to the touch but to the eyes as well, she was envied by all the other girls. She had been proud that her Raistlin had her hair, so proud. Both she and her boy looked so alike, so very alike. Yes, she loved her Raistlin, so very much. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly and she smiled fondly. Raistlin was her favorite.

So why, she had to wonder, did he leave? Didn't he want to stay with her, read stories and do sums with her? She had been so happy to regain awareness, all thanks to The Widow Judith whom she would be forever grateful to, but her joy was also tainted with despair. When she had 'woken up' she had been all alone. Gilon was there and her little Caramon—not so little anymore!—but her baby, her favorite was gone! She had been terrified, horrified and fearful. What had become of her Raistlin? He'd always been so frail…

Rosamum had been in a panic until her Caramon had told her the news, that her boy was at a school—a school!—for magic. That was ridiculous, she had thought. Her Raistlin didn't have magic. That was preposterous!

But as the winter months neared an end she eagerly awaited the spring and Raistlin's return home. She had deliriously pleased to see him, she smothered him and cried all over him as he sheld her with shaking hands. It was with utmost horror that she found her boy thin as a wraith and his skin burning. But it had always burned and he had always been thin so she didn't pay either thought too much attention.

No, Rosamum had buried her nose in the beautiful reddish hair and inhaled the scent of ink and lavender until she had calmed down enough to look her boy in the face. He was so handsome that her heart swelled with a warm tenderness. His eyes were unsettling to most but they drew her in, she drowned in their intensity and was resurrected with the knowledge that _she _gave birth to this boy; Her boy.

The time he had spent at home was the happiest that she could remember. Until The Widow Judith had pulled her aside. She told Rosamum that her boy was learning evil, that he was evil himself! Rosamum knew otherwise but a part of her clung to the idea. If she told her Raistlin than surely he would stay home with her forever, he wouldn't go away again for the winters.

So she told him. She ranted and raved but she could see a slight fear in his eyes. It wasn't the right fear though, it was fear of her. Rosamum had not liked it at all and she had dragged herself away from her boy and sat herself in her rocking chair.

And now, an hour after her Raistlin's departure, she sat alone.

Numbly, Rosamum turned her head to look out of the window and down at the people below. They were ants to her, as she floated through the sky and just below the clouds. No one took notice of her as she abandoned her home for another.

The sky was different in her other home. It was gray and rainy, with hardly any sun at all, especially at this time of the year, whatever time that was. People and places were also different in this place. They were rotten and wretched but she always came back. She had spent nearly a decade wandering and learning about this strange place. She would have left it immediately if not for one person, who was not so nasty and cruel. She watched him grow older and came to love him dearly.

Harry Potter was her Other Home son. He had to be, with his visions and his and his soft hair. His black messy hair. He had to be Gregor's Other Home son as well. He had to be for he was so wonderful and handsome and sweet. But he was like her Raistlin, so very thin. She knew if she had him he would be so happy and healthy, so much _better._

His family upset her, with their boorishness and hatred. She would normally avoid them at all costs but as she floated in the large home—on the ground! Completely unprotected…-she realized a meeting was inevitable.

The family could not see her. They had never been able to see her or hear her screaming at them. They ignored her. It was one of the many reasons that Rosamum abhorred them.

And tonight the whole household was in the kitchen. Her boy was a fearful sight from where he stood in front of that strange, hot metal contraption. His bones protruded terribly and he had not gained a single inch in the year that she had spent away from him. And his beautiful eyes, those absolutely gorgeous emerald eyes, were dull and ringed with purple.

She hugged herself until he had finished his chore and produced dinner for his relatives. Her Other Home boy was shooed away from the room and he retreated weakly up the staircase to his bedroom where he curled upon his bed and fell asleep. Rosamum watched over him for a while before moving across the room to where a snowy white owl napped in her cage. Rosamum was incredibly fond of the bird as well. She had protected her Other Home boy so well whenever she was forced to leave.

The owl slowly opened her eyes to look straight at Rosamum, who smiled lovingly back. The owl blinked before closing her eyes once more. A rustling brought Rosamum back to her dear child once more and when she turned around it was to find him groaning and twisting on his bed, sweat already forming on his brow and tears overflowing.

Before she could figure out was wrong he screamed and burst into all out sobbing, clinging to his flat pillow desperately.

It was to her dismay that she heard the sound of pounding feet on the stairs, a prelude to the door being thrown open with enough forced to dent the wall behind it. Her Harry snapped out of his nightmare and was confronted with a much more frightening one involving the largest man in the house, reaching for his neck. Rosamum put her face in her hands and wept as her Other Home son was ruined.

The abuse seemed to last for hours until that piggish man left, spitting on the bruised, beaten, and bloody body of her Harry as he stomped out as quickly as he had come.

Rosamum crawled to her boy and wished she could comfort him for she knew he needed warmth, love and protection. It killed her to see these wretches fail where she could so certainly succeed. Harry could be her own baby, she'd feed him and love him and pay him all the attention he could ever want. She'd be her Raistlin replacement in the winter and her third son the rest of the year.

Those thought rang in her heart so clearly and sincerely that she didn't notice how solid her Other Home boy's shoulder had become under hand, or that she had begun to float away, Harry along with her. The owl to soared beside them as Rosamum found herself floating over Solace once more.

She could distantly here The Widow Judith's cries and just barely felt the hand that was shaking her so fiercely. The window, she realized, was now blackened by the setting of the sun, but even so, the moons glowed over head. She stared at them with wonder, not at all interested her own husband's pleading her to return to him. It was only the movement of what was in her hand that drew her attention away.

Her damaged Other Home son was in her arms, hot and _alive_, his skin rising and falling as his breaths came out unevenly. Rosamum smiled warmly and pet his black hair. So soft, so dark, not quite curly but with plenty of wave.

He looked so very much like Gregor.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Gilon had arrived home to a, rather unpleasant, sight that he never expected to see.

First, he wondered why Judith was flapping her arms about so wildly, crying for a "Belzor" person to help them.

Gilon then proceeded to question why Caramon was howling and shaking his wife about like a wet rag.

Next was the delirious smile on Rosamum's lips, as she stared down obsessively at the head in her lap while stroking her hands through the mane of bloody black hair.

Finally, he came to see the source of the disturbance. There was a young, beaten, and black haired boy on his wife's lap.

How odd.

"Dad! She won't snap out of it!" Caramon blubbered senselessly, drawing Gilon from his dazed state. Snapping to attention, he pulled his son away from his wife and gripped her shoulders with strong hands, albeit shaky ones, and called to his wife gently, pleading her to come back to him.

He could barely hear himself over the screeching of the Widow Judith and he turned to Caramon hoping he would silence her, but he was too panicked and confused to do a thing. For the first time in a while Gilon truly wished Raistlin were home.

Finally, as the strange boy began to move whilst silently starting to weep, his wife came back to him. She stared with awe and amazement at the child before, then look up to him.

"Look at my new baby, he's so beautiful, isn't he?"

Unnerved, Gilon quietly reassured her that, yes, he was very handsome and took after her so _very_ much. Whilst prying her hands away from the boy he began to see just how damaged the child was.

Neither a soldier nor a healer, Gilon had been lucky to go through life seeing nothing more gruesome then the slit throats of sheep and chickens on his father's farm and the occasional bar brawl in his youth. This left him wholly unprepared for the gashed forehead, welt kissed back and purpling form draped across his wife's knees. As he stared, he also realized that the thin rags that hung off him would hardly keep the child safe from the cold and hurriedly stormed off to grab the first blanket he could find to cover the child.

Caramon, on the other hand, was just now discovering the stranger in their home and watched warily as his mother cooed at the likely delusional if not still half unconscious boy. When his father returned from the back room he asked, "Who is he?"

Before Gilon could answer Judith did so for him.

"It's evil."

Turning his head to stare at the woman who had so kindly been taking care of his family for a year, he was startled by the hatred that rolled off her tongue.

"She fell into evil and she brought back a demon!" Judith hissed, frustrated that Gilon did not seem to understand her.

"He's just a child—."

"Devil Spawn!" Judith snarled and pointed cruelly at the bloody boy. "An abomination! You have to burn him, quickly! Or the Good Lord Belzor will take it as a grave offense!"

Biting the inside of his cheek uncomfortably, Gilon tried reasoning with her. "He can't be, and I truly am sorry Madam but I don't know who this Belzor is—."

"Belzor is the Lord, with his kindness and graciousness."

Gilon rubbed his eyes. He was far too exhausted to deal with all of what was happening and shut both his eyes and ears to the Widow Judith and the dying boy in front of him. He did not understand anything coming out of Judith's mouth and had little patience to sort it out whilst a boy was bleeding to death in his home. He would help the child first and listen to Judith later.

Anything that Rosamum looked at it with such tenderness could never be evil. Not even Raistlin's intense stare was dangerous.

Trying not to jostle the black haired boy too much, Gilon wrapped him in a thin blanket and lifted him into his arms. He was as light as Raistlin was when he was a child, leaving Gilon a sense of nostalgia as he hurried into his youngest son's bedroom. How many times had Raistlin collapsed with an unexpected fever, leaving him to sweep the boy up? He'd lost count long ago, but Raistlin had never remembered curling and shivering in his father's arms. He would always have forgotten those moments of weakness by the time he was better.

The shudder that wracked the black haired boy's body brought him back to reality as he carefully laid him on the bed, and proceeded to yell for Caramon to get some water and bandages. He wasn't terribly sure as to what he should do, all he could conceive was that he needed to do _something_.

Caramon lumbered in with a pale of water, sloshing it on the floor as his shock addled min left him more of a hindrance than a help. Using the cloth often kept tucked under the bed for Raistlin's fevers, Gilon dipped it into the water and shakily tried to clean up the wounds. The child whimpered and shied away when the cloth touch the jagged head wound and Gilon found it difficult to swallow.

"Caramon, why don't you keep your mother company, you know how she gets after her…naps."

The gaping boy nodded dumbly and stumbled out of the room, leaving his father only a little less pressured than he had been with him watching his every move. Gilon continued to pat at the wounds littering the small body and once he's managed to wipe off the dried blood on his forehead he discovered the oddest scar he'd ever seen.

It was a lightening bolt, thin and precise as though purposefully carved into the flesh of the boy's brow. It felt wrong, very wrong, and a small voice in the back of his head began to wonder if Judith had been a little correct after all and that this child was dangerous. He forced himself to toss the idea aside and began to wrap the yellowed bandages around the head, fumbling a time or two before tying it off.

Most of the other wounds had stopped bleeding and were simply too numerous to bandage them all.

Gilon rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and let his head hang limply. He was so tired…Caramon, who had returned from his mother, was looking down at the boy, fear gone and replaced with wary curiosity. "Go to bed Caramon," Gilon told his son. Not wanting him to wake the child up, which he most certainly would if he stuck around.

"But we haven't even had dinner yet!" His oldest cried in horror but was silenced by the stern look Gilon sent him. "You won't die from a missed meal, boy, now get going." Caramon could only droop miserably and stumble to bed; he knew better than to try to argue with his father when he had that tone of voice.

Turning back to the matter at hand, Gilon began o search the sleeping child for some sign of identification, papers or perhaps a family insignia. Though unlikely, there was still the slightest possibility that the boy had been taken from rich family for ransom until his kidnappers finally decided he wasn't worth the money, or his parents wouldn't pay up.

His search was wasted however, as there was no such link to a family or place of origin, just a set of oversized, shredded rags hardly fit for a pauper.

Unable to come up with anything else to do, he left the boy to rest and entered the kitchen. The candle that had previously lit the room had gone out, leaving his wife to rock in her chair whilst knitting the gods knew what. The cold had settled into house and Gilon wondered if it were truly the weather or if the nights events had something to do with it, perhaps if Raistlin were home he would know.

Giving his shaggy head a shake, Gilon turned to fire place to burn some of the slow burning oak he'd been bringing back from work the entire summer. His fatigued and aching muscles welcomed the warms and he felt the tenseness in his shoulders melt away. Once the fire was roaring in the pit, he move to his wife's side.

Rosamum hummed softly as she mended what seemed to be one of Caramon's oldest and most damaged shirts. He hadn't worn it since the sleeves tore during his twelfth year. He hadn't known Rosamum had kept it.

"Rose," he started softy, kneeling down in front of her. "Are you alright?" She looked up at him and smiled so brightly it was almost infectious. "Of course dear, I am so happy!" She hadn't stopped her sewing and she continued talking, "Now I have my Harry, he is such a sweet child and he's mine now!"

Gilon felt his heart rushing. "Where did he come from Rose, dear?" Rosamum looked at him lovingly and patted his head.

"Don't be so silly Gilon. He came from the other place, of course." She returned to her humming and Gilon stood up, head reeling. Where was this other place? Was it wherever she…visited…in her visions? But how could 'Harry' have gotten here, in his home?" Perhaps this would require a trip to Master Theobald, surely the man would be able to make sense of it. He was a wizard was he not? It was his area of expertise.

But the thought of that particular trek disturbed him. He wasn't intolerant, merely concerned. Magic was still new to him, despite his youngest attending a school dedicated to it for years. Though he hadn't allowed his fear to overrule him when he first went to Master Theobald to inquire about Raistlin's attendance, he had been terrified about what would happen. He had been most surprised to find a man so…well, it wasn't in his nature to take first impressions to heart.

If he was unable to extract any more information from his wife he would visit the school. Perhaps the boy, 'Harry,' would be able to explain what had happened and how exactly he wound up in his home. However, the child would need a while to rest and heal, something that could take anywhere from a week to a month. He would need to be patient.

Luckily, patience was one of Gilon's strong points.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Caramon had not wanted to go to work the next morning, too interested in the strange boy that the Widow Judith had been kicking up a fuss over. The fiery woman had returned at sunrise, after Gilon had set out to join his crew on the way to their day's site, leaving his eldest son to deal with what as to come. After a long winded, and one sided, shouting match with the Widow Caramon had hesitantly asked her to leave, though he made sure to mind his manners while doing so. He was far too confused about the night before.

Unable to trust his mother on her own, he ashamedly asked Sturm if he could run up to give Farmer Sedge his most sincere apologies for being unable to go to work. His friend had puffed his chest out with pride and eagerly accepted the 'noble quest', assuring Caramon that he would accomplish it swiftly and surely.

Sturm Brightblade had always been a mystery to Caramon, but he had an even bigger one sleeping in his twin's bed to think about. Rosamum however, who had not slept a wink the night before, continued her patching and sewing whilst humming disjointedly almost as though she didn't recall the incident that occurred only a few hours ago. Almost being the key word. Every once in a while she'd send a tender and loving glance toward the room that the boy slept in, giggling to herself and returning to her work.

With little else to do as his mother occupied herself with her needlework, Caramon sat beside the bed and stared down at the boy. At first he wasn't terribly certain because his eyelashes were too long and girly and he was awfully slim. But on further examination he decided there was no way that anyone would hurt a girl, because he knew some of those bruises definitely were not caused by accident, so the child had to be a boy.

While Caramon was by no means the sharpest tool in the shed, in fact he was likely the dullest, he knew that what ever had happened to the boy now resting in his brother's bed had been awful and would likely lead to more problems once he awakened.

As if summoned from his slumber by the larger boy's thoughts, the child's eyes clenched before fluttering open, revealing the brightest shade of green he had ever seen on a person's eyes, even brighter than that scrappy little girl that Otik had taken in.

The boy stared dazedly at Caramon, not fully noting his presence but rather trying to focus. They both blinked at one another.

"Ron?"

Caramon nervously thrust his hand toward the child, the words spilling out of his mouth, "Hello there, my name is Caramon, you arrived so suddenly that you gave us all a scare so who are you?"

* * *

When Harry felt himself come back to reality, he expected it to be from his Aunt Petunia rapping feverishly on his door and to find himself lying on the floor of the smallest bedroom in the Dursley household, bloodying up the wooden panels for the shear fun of it. In simpler terms, exactly where his less than pleasant Uncle had left him to rot.

Instead, he found himself surprisingly comfortable, aside from the throbbing head ache and ache that went through to his bones. At first he wondered if Sirius had come to save him and taken him to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. That theory was almost immediately discounted because he was sure Madame Pomfrey would have force fed him a potion by now but the only taste in his mouth was the blood from when he'd bit his tongue on the way to the ground.

Not to mention that it smelled far to…woodsy to be a hospital of any kind. While much softer than his own mattress, the bed in which he had been sleeping was definitely not on par with those that lined the walls of Madame Pomfrey's domain and was actually quite itchy to his sensitive skin.

Harry considered not opening his eyes, but found that they had already begun to slip open without his permission, determined to reveal wherever he was. It was incredibly fuzzy, and the slightest movement of his head sent the world spinning so he settled his gave on the large mass right beside him.

It jerked once, bringing Harry's attention to a blur of reddish—something. After a few moments of stupidly attempting to guess what it could be Harry considered the very reasonable possibility that it was his closest friend.

"Ron?" He asked timidly, somewhat surprised to find his voice croaky and his throat painfully raw. The figure jumped forward then, and even in his nearly blinded state Harry could tell that if he hadn't backed up a bit he might have gotten whacked by the large fist being held before him.

The garbled words that followed left his heart to sink. He couldn't understand a word that this person was saying which meant that, as long he wasn't talking with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, he or she could not be Ronald Weasley.

So _who the bloody hell_ was next to him and _where in Merlin's name_ was he? Naturally, it was time for the panic to set in.

"H-how," he choked on his words and let them die in his throat. If he didn't understand the language the other was speaking, what were the chances that they would understand English? Harry really did wish he had his glasses so he could, at the very least, be able to read some body language.

A crash from short distance away made him jump and a new blur appeared from around what he could only assume was a door.

"Harry!" Startled, it took a moment for him to realize that it was a woman and that she knew his name.

"You know English?" He croaked hopefully, a spark in his chest. Thank goodness, now maybe things would get sorted out.

But the only response he received was another garble of unfamiliar words and was a bit frightened to find that the woman had moved much closer to him and was now petting him all over, smothering him with kisses and all in all, pawing at him.

"Stop!" He cried hoarsely and tried to shove her away but her thin arms were much stronger than his own in Harry's condition. The other person in the room leapt to his feet and started to whisper that weird language into the woman's ear and tried to pull her away from him. She resisted however and stubbornly clung to Harry, jostling him and his wounds painfully.

"Ouch!" The hands disappeared for a moment and returned, this time gently stroking his face. Harry could only lay still and wait for it to be over, no matter the terror he was feeling.

* * *

If not for the sound of the rocking chair hitting the ground, Caramon wouldn't have noticed his mother's arrival. An elated smile was shining on her face and she stumbled over to where Caramon had once again seated himself beside the bed and practically fell on top of the boy resting in it. She murmured a word that Caramon didn't recognize but he soon found himself far busier trying to tug her away from the clearly terrified child to out too much thought to it.

As she proceeded to coat the injured boy with kisses he felt a strange emotion that he hadn't ever really felt before. It was a heavy feeling in his gut and a small clench of his heart. He hadn't felt this way since Raistlin told him he couldn't follow him into that school of his, because his brother was choosing that place over him, his twin. What had Sturm called it?

Jealousy, that was it. While Caramon didn't know much about this 'jealousy' thing he did know it was a bad thing to be feeling towards a beaten up kid. It made him feel quite ashamed for the second time that day.

The boy in question let out a yelp when Rosamum had grabbed him just a little too hard and the already bloodied bandage around his head started to redden even more.

"Mother, you're hurting him. You have to calm down," he whispered soothingly and she finally took a shuddering breath and settled for stroking the petrified boy's face.

"Do you know who he is, Mother?" Caramon asked after a moment.

"He's my Harry," was the immediate response and then she stilled. "Oh, my poor boy you must be so afraid, you don't even have your glasses so you can't see me! Don't you worry everything will be PERFECT."

Caramon found that hard to swallow and sat back, watching as the boy closed off and retreated into himself under his mother's obsessed fingertips. He didn't like it, his mother's attentions on this 'Harry' nor how he was reacting, so he felt incapable of doing anything.

The day passed quickly, Rosamum leaving only to gather her sewing materials to bring back to Raistlin's room and, had Caramon not offered to drag the rocking chair in, she would have sat on the cold wooden floors if only to remain a little closer to Harry.

Harry himself, however had not so much as twitched in the several hours since he had allowed himself to fall limp in Rosamum's arms, not even when Caramon took a stretch or went off to cook some lunch for the three of them. Needless to say, he didn't eat the broth that Caramon had prepared, the only meal he even knew how to make, leaving the much larger boy feeling obligated to eat it for him.

By nightfall Caramon realized he should probably have replaced the bandages around Harry's head wound when he first saw it bleeding and felt absolutely wretched when he found that it left a pool of blood to soak into the boy's hair and all over the back of his neck. No wonder he hadn't moved, he'd likely passed out!

That's what he thought, anyway, before he noticed the boy's eyes were open, just scrunched together funny as if he was trying to see something far, far away.

"Oh," he remembered. "Glasses. I'll have to talk to Father about it…"

Caramon believed that he might recall seeing a pair on a well off merchant once and hoped that they weren't too expensive; while the Majere's were considerably better off than they had been a few years ago, they were still by no means as comfortable as they would dream. Not to mention that if they truly had another mouth to feed…

Well, if he ended up replacing the Widow Judith perhaps it would be all right.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The loss of his sight and hearing, for without a familiar tongue all sound was worthless to him, left Harry chilled. He lay quietly under the thin blanket he had woken with, fighting the urge to flinch or shake when the odd woman would stroke his hair. His eyes started to ache and the blurry forms started to cross back and forth across his vision, leaving his head pounding. He scrunched them until they were almost closed and the movement stopped but the pain in his head remained. He wondered, miserably, how long he could keep this up.

Harry had no idea where he was or who was stroking him, only that he couldn't possibly be at Number Four anymore. There was no knowing how he had gotten there, but it didn't surprise him too terribly, as he never had been able to remember much after a beating from his Uncle Vernon. If not for the stabbing in his skull he would have believed himself to be in the middle of a strange dream.

He was likely delirious from the concussion.

Eventually the hands dissappeared and were replaced by an croaky humming. It made Harry even more nervous than before but there was little he could do. The time passed, how long he didn't know, and the room had begun to darken before an orangey yellow glow struck up in the corner of his eyes. Having been in a trance of sorts, it snapped him back to reality enough to begun to feel something trickling down his neck.

Disgust.

He was too weak to clean himself up, too frightened to try moving on his own, and more than anything, too _stupid_ to talk to these people and get the help he needed. He bit back the tears and swallow the burning in his throat. As if sensing his distress, the hulking figure entered his vague vision and leaned over him in order to clumsily move his head with those large hands.

Harry only just picked up on the high whine that came from his bigger caretaker's throat. It was sad whine. Pitying and guilty. It would have made Harry angry if not for the fact he'd pity the luckless bloke he had his head smashed against the floor on a nightly basis too.

* * *

After another exhausting day in the forests Gilon returned home. Caramon wasted no time in describing what had happened since the night before. "Doesn't know what I'm saying, Pa, not a word!"

Gilon pondered this bit of knowledge whilst tugging off one of his boots. Well, he thought, that will make things much more difficult. It was odd to come across someone who didn't even know common. Even the elves deigned it important enough to learn at a young age, so he'd heard in any case. But the boy certainly hadn't led a sheltered life, more the opposite.

Caramon was stirring a pot over the fire that smelled distinctly burnt, still talking over his shoulder to his father. "Can't see either! He's had his eyes all scrunched up tinier than…well, really tiny! I heard Mother saying something about him missing his glasses."

A weight was growing in Gilon's stomach. This boy was turning out to be more trouble than he was worth. Gilon shuffled through the merchant he'd come across and could only think of a few who sold glasses. They weren't cheap. He'd need to have his eyes looked at too. He rubbed his palm against his face before realizing that he had just smeared himself with dirt. A sigh rang from his mouth and he moved to clean up.

"We'll figure something out."

Caramon nodded distractedly and Gilon could hear the gears cranking in the boy's head.

"What if I went up to see Raistlin? Y'know, just to see if he-"

"No."

"Why not?" Caramon cried, and hissed has he burnt a finger while taking the pot off the fire.

"You know you can't just hang around up there. They won't like it." And I'm not comfortable with you being there by yourself either.

"They'll understand though, after all, me and Raist are twins! They can't just keep us apart all the time!" He didn't want to tell his father he already went up to visit his brother quite frequently.

Gilon just shook his head and left the room. Peering through the doorframe he wasn't surprised to find Rosamum happily rocking beside the boy's bed and felt his heart ache. She had finished mending a number of old clothes and they lay folded beside her. He notices that there were scraps of fabric all around and understood why she'd taken up the sewing so quickly. Yes. He understood.

He kissed her on the cheek and was pleased he smile stretched even wider. Even more pleased when she pecked him back on the lips. It eerily reminded him of the new parents that would sometimes frequent the bridges, showing off their newborn babe and giving each other gooey eyes. He'd hoped for that when Rosamum had been pregnant with the twins. But of course, dreams were called such for a reason.

Caramon bustled passed him with two bowls of broth and set one down of the bedside table so that he could gently pry the sewing from his mother's hands.

"Mother, time to eat."

She looked up at him a moment, still bright eyed and grinning, and took the bowl from him quite graciously. "I'm so sorry Caramon, I've been so caught up with these old rags that I've left you to the cooking! Don't you worry, I'll make something delicious for you and your brother in the morning!"

Both father and son frowned and Gilon gently rested a hand on her back. "Dear, Raistlin is at school right now, he's staying there for the colder seasons." But Rosamum shook him off.

"No, silly, I mean Harry here. He needs fattening up if he's going to be up and about soon!"

The boy jerked a little at his name and Gilon made an 'O' with his mouth. The delicate head turned on the pillow to face him, brilliant eyes unseeing. "Right," he said.

Well. It was a start.

* * *

A majority of the evening was spent trying to tempt the boy to eat the watery broth that Caramon had 'cooked'. He accepted a few spoonfuls before pursing his lips and refusing anymore, though it was hardly surprising as most of the broth had dribbled all down his chin and, if the blush staining his cheeks were anything to go by, he was too ashamed to carry on.

Bowls set aside, and the mess cleaned, Gilon settled down beside the bed and considered how to go about what he wanted to do. Finally, he reached his hand toward the boy's hand.

The flinch that followed was most upsetting.

He pushed on regardless, and gently lifted the hand to his chest and held it there. "Gilon," he said slowly. When the child just kept staring he felt his heart drop. He repeated his name three more times, patting the other's hand against his chest softly each time.

Now pushing the boys hand to his own chest, he said, "Harry."

And those eyes lit up a brighter green then any Valenwood Tree that Gilon had ever seen.

Harry seemed to regain his strength then and nodded in understanding, removing his hand from the gentle grip. Pointing at the man he whispered hoarsely, "Gilon," and back to himself. "Harry." There was devestating relief in his voice and sprinkle of hope. Feeling heartened, Gilon slowly reached his hand out again an softly patted the nest of black hair.

He kissed his wife on the cheek and muttered goodnight to Harry before taking the bowls and spoons into the kitchen where he found his oldest son, miserably slurping the last dredges of the broth from the pot, and gave him a heavy pat on the back. Caramon jumped up to help his father with the dishes and after a minute or so of silence he brought up what was plaguing him.

"Dad, I don't think I can take another day off of work."

Gilon hesitated in his scrubbing but continued a moment later.

"Don't worry about it," he said gruffly. "We'll just have to show your mother how to do things. I think she'll be able to if it's for him." He didn't have to look up to see that Caramon was even more upset by this.

"Just say it, boy."

Caramon bit his lip. "She never did anything when Raist was sick. Always said he was her favorite but she never lifted a finger to-"

"She's better now."

Caramon looked back to the spoon he was drying. Brows scrunched together but silent.

Once everything was cleaned and dried Caramon began to slump off to his room but Gilon's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"She loves you boys. You know she does. She's only just come back to us and-…it takes time. Don't let it get in the way of seeing that kid for what he is; hurt, broken, and beaten."

"But how?" Caramon questioned. "What do I do then?"

"Take care of him like you do Raistlin." Gilon said simply and squeezed his son's shoulder. "By the sounds of it, your mother plans on him becoming part of the family anyway."

The two separated Caramon to his room to think and Gilon back to where his wife sat, too tired to rock, in order to help her to bed.


End file.
